


Ink-stained Purple Dreams

by nabicnvs



Category: GOT7
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Exes to Lovers, M/M, Pillow Talk, also cheesy stuff, misconceptions about art and such, painter Jackson, painting nudes, pierced nipples, unnecessary art rambling, writer Jaebeom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nabicnvs/pseuds/nabicnvs
Summary: Jackson always thought they were the same. He always thought they shared the same experiences, the same pain and the same passion; the same love for each other and for crafting art.Yet he always overlooked this one little detail that went like this: his hands were supposed and expected to create, to craft, to paint; to get dirty with paint and grey charcoal and to be admired for that. In retrospect, Jaebeom's hands had never been told they looked good with red bumps from the pen or splattered in dark ink.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Jackson Wang
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	Ink-stained Purple Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluetint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetint/gifts).



> happy birthday, bea <3 (yes i am late, but please accept this because i worked hard on it :') and for once i kinda like it!) hope you enjoy it, too!
> 
> please expect a lot of rambling about art. and yes, some of the stuff i wrote here personally victimized me, too!
> 
> without further ado, please enjoy!

_Why now?_ And since Jackson thought he’d be surprised about it, he made sure to let the answer be an understanding. 

_Because you like being stranded between four walls,_ present and poignant in Jackson’s gaze, carefully placed so it would be readable, crystal clear. But also, _because, despite us pretending we hate each other now, you are still my dear and precious muse._

It’s cute in a way, their separation. It makes Jaebeom place a hand over his bare and freshly-pierced nipples, as if Jackson had never seen them; as if he hadn’t touched or kissed them endless times. As if all the intimacy burned out like a wrong sketch thrown in the fireplace. As if all the intimate times expired and could no longer be invoked or remembered after the break up. 

It doesn't bother Jackson as much as he thought it would. Rather, it reminds him of their earlier days, of an incredibly shy aspiring writer turned into a statue for an art project. He is still here, in the room, wearing the same skin, the same blush, having the same walls built up around him. Only this time, Jackson knows all the passages, all the secrets, all the magic words. 

Jackson left his cozy cardigan on the couch, as always, curious about how a shier muse would wear it. Again, he doesn't necessarily hate it, he is only trying to cultivate the art out of it, that’s all. 

“Should I take my clothes off?” Jaebeom’s voice sounds exasperated, and it’s almost funny to see along with the embarrassed face and bare upper half. 

“Actually,” Jackson lets his pencil case on the stool he placed next to the easel earlier, and abandons the white canvas for a little while so he can light up a cigarette, “theme is ‘graphic’, so I was really curious about how you would view it. You’re a writer, so you really know how to twist things and make them really unique, so do tell me what crosses your mind.”

“I’m not working with visual arts though… I might be wrong.”

“There’s no wrong way of seeing it.” Jackson kindly reminds him, a small smile winning over one of his cheeks. 

“I assume you’ll choose nudity?”

“Not exclusively. But yes, nudity catches the eye and since I’m good at drawing bodies, I will do this. Anyway, how do you see something graphic when you have a human character involved in the, let’s say, main scene?”

“I don’t know, Jackson, I am just your model for today… draw what you want…” _I’m too tired to care_ hanging in the air, though Jaebeom doesn't let it escape his lips. 

They had this conversation before. Maybe one too many times. They finally broke up over this conversation, of course it was over _this conversation_ , about three months ago. 

“Right. I forgot you don't give a shit about—”

“I do, I just don't want to intrude and ruin your ideas.”

“I literally asked what’s your take on it, Jaebeom. If you don’t fucking care, then say it, and go take off your pants and lay down so we can get this over with already.” 

“You know what I don't understand?”

A roll of eyes from Jackson, then them fixing on the figure he has been painting for years. “What?”

“Why do you still insist on drawing me when there are so many models out there, much more professional and way more beautiful than me…” 

“You just answered your own question. Others are not you. You’re not others. And _I_ …” A hand moves and with the gentlest movements it guides Jaebeom down, pushes him and presses on the wound on his heart that still bleeds. “I am not seeking perfection or beauty.” 

The only pair of hands Jaebeom ever let travel across his skin climb over his clothed thighs and with just a gulp he gives in and rests his hands over that pair of shoulders that has been his strongest support for… for too much time now. He is not even sure when Jackson got down on his knees or when he placed the cigarette between his lips to free both of his hands. Yet he did, for the sole purpose of undressing Jaebeom with both hands. 

“Yeah, you just want your own small gallery…” Jaebeom whispers between them, a reminder for him, who has been busy slicing himself into million pieces and crying over self-made wounds.

“Well, is that too much for an artist to want? Or do you think I am not worthy of it?”

“Of course you are…” Jaebeom mumbles as he gets the pre-crying migraine. _Are they going to have that conversation again?_

_What’s absolutely maddening is that there are so many things to say that they never get to have it properly. It’s consuming and they probably need a whole night to cover all the aspects of it, but who has time for that?_

“It just seems impossible, huh?” Jackson finally finishes Jaebeom’s sentence with a bittersweet tone, aromatized by the cigarette smoke coming out of his mouth and nostrils at the same time as the words.

Jaebeom prefers to let the conversation die right here, so he doesn't reply or react to that and, instead, lifts his butt so Jackson can pull his pants down along with his underwear. Jackson seems surprised to see knee-high black socks, though it’s not the first time he sees Jaebeom wearing something like this. 

As much as the black socks stir him, he gets up and manages to abandon Jaebeom, to let his cold body crawl a little bit on the couch until he flops inelegantly to one side. Only now does Jackson have the time to notice his hair, slightly wavy and pretty voluminous today, probably washed a day prior. 

Honestly, as an ex-boyfriend, Jackson wants to take him, to gently climb over him and fuck him dumb into the couch.

As a simple man, Jackson still wants to take him, maybe a bit more gently; the kind of sex that it’s just his temples pressed between Jaebeom’s thighs and his hand, knuckles-deep into Jaebeom while Jaebeom struggles between fucking himself on it and choking on his own syllabes. 

Then, as a shitty fucking artist, Jackson wants to _take him one more time_. To tell him to turn around and fuck him while he is on his knees, on Jackson’s couch. To wrap an arm around his neck and to have him coming hard while crying and trembling. To move him on the bed, where they can fight and yell and strangle each other to death. 

As the only persona who doesn't think with their dick, Jackson really wants to pin him down and make him cry his eyes out. It almost happened last time they saw each other in private, three months ago; Jackson just didn’t get to that part due to the frustration, he simply spat out words because Jaebeom crying and yelling in his own home didn’t feel right.

“Lay your head on your hand and try not to let your hand down. I’ll draw it first so your hand won’t fall asleep.” Though Jackson gives the instructions, he doesn't want to see just yet, so he busies himself with throwing away his cigarette butt and sharpening his favourite pencil. He knows it’s a bit dumb to feel like this, but he is living that damned scene in the Titanic, and reality looks and feels way nicer than the actual movie. 

_And he’s getting cheesy again._

“Gonna play some music. Do you want me to play anything in particular?”

It’s a bit hard for Jaebeom to pretend he doesn't know the playlists Jackson likes to have playing while sketching or painting. It’s hard to pretend he doesn't know Jackson’s favourite tracks, and it’s even harder to lie to himself that they didn't grow together on the same music for the past few years. 

“Whatever keeps you going.” _As if I don’t know what you’re going to play. I just don’t know if it’s junk playlist or the—_

Jaebeom blinks a few times when he realizes Jackson put on his sweet love-making playlist. And it’s not the slow, smooth, dirty one, it’s that one full of rock ballads which he usually had playing while being grossly in love, whispering sweet stuff to Jaebeom instead of going for a round two. _Fucking lovesick fool._

As he finally moves in front of his white canvas, Jaebeom starts wondering, could it be that Jackson misses him? Maybe not, because there is nothing to miss about Jaebeom. The playlist should be just… 

“Can you… can you look at me for a bit?”

Jaebeom tries. He can only try and hope that his stupid soul doesn’t start aching as he is gazing at Jackson while fully nude. He gulps when he remembers about his nakedness, about the curve of his body, about his display pierced nipples, about his bare cock that it’s not even slightly covered with pubic hair — he felt it was better to shave though Jackson didn't mention, and though he feels incredibly clean, he also feels fully exposed, more naked than just naked. Vulnerable and naïve. 

“Why are you so stiff?” Jackson asks, but doesn't move his eyes from his sketch. His hand doesn't stop either. [Slash’s guitar solo on November Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SbUC-UaAxE) seems longer than Jaebeom remembers it. 

Jaebeom has no idea why he got wood-stiff out of the blue, but his clothed knee jerks up and his position is ruined. Although Jackson frowns when he sees him moving, he doesn't start barking and instead just watches Jaebeom twisting painfully on the couch; a hand he can’t use because it fell asleep, clothed knees stabbing the couch, bare ass in the air. A hand stretching to grab the cardigan. 

It takes Jackson all the drain in his body to not drag his feet closer and let himself collapse over the floundering, clean-smelling, bare-skinned muse. 

“Can we take a small break?” It’s what Jaebeom asks with an embarrassed face, when the cardigan is pulled to his chest, covering his intimate parts. 

Usually, Jaebeom was better than this. He used to be that muse who stayed still for how long Jackson needed, who didn’t flinch when Jackson approached to study the position from a different angle. He used to be the muse that only moved under Jackson’s guiding hands, and who sent a small, reassuring smile to show that he is tired, stiff or uncomfortable with the position. 

So it’s a bit hard right now, when he is moving his limbs and bones on his own, when he is here out of pity instead of out of pure love for Jackson’s art. It makes Jackson believe that _maybe he meant it truly when he said that he hates Jackson and his stupid art, all with an uncensored mouth and tears running down his cheeks._

It makes Jackson believe that he meant it when he said _“I don’t want to be your stupid muse, Jackson!”_

“Have you been well?” Jackson blurts out, because he needs to block that memory of Jaebeom yelling at him. At the same time, he would like to know whether his muse already replaced him. 

He’s also quick to move and occupy his spot in front of Jaebeom, under his gaze. Even offers Jaebeom a cigarette and lights it up for him. It’s weird talking openly to your ex, even after three months of complete separation. Because intimacy lingers much more than it should.

“I have been working… I… uhm…” 

_Yeah, you’ve been stranding yourself between four walls. I know._ All very prominent in the hazel of Jackson’s eyes as he follows every soft breath.

“I took a break from… that book I wanted to write. I didn’t touch it in months and I thought about giving it up completely, but I also want to finish it for myself… _sometime_ … I don’t know.” 

Ah. Alright. And Jackson is supposed to pretend he doesn’t want to give him an encouraging kiss. And maybe let it spread like a butterfly and let it land on Jaebeom’s shoulder, too. 

“Yeah, I have been okay.” 

A full stop. _I talked about myself again when I shouldn’t have._ God, Jackson wants to shove his tongue between his lips and lick up all the taste in his mouth. 

“How about you?”

How about Jackson, huh? 

He had needed to get out of this place so he visited his parents for three days. It had been hell on Earth and he regretted every second. He had bought three bouquets of flowers he meant to send to Jaebeom, but chickened out last second and didn’t. He had been missing his favourite pair of thighs and his favourite voice and his favourite ink-spilled fingers caressing him on the head like no one else can. 

So, how about him?

“I’ve been… you know, thinking about… stuff.” 

That stuff may not include the long black socks on Jaebeom, so he caresses over a clothed knee though he has no permission. Jaebeom looks like he won’t yell, like he won’t mind. And doesn't. 

“I still don't get it, you know? Our fight… it’s really stupid to me.”

“It is stupid.” Jaebeom reassures and decides to toss his half-smoked cigarette on the paint-covered napkin he pulls out of Jackson’s pocket. “But maybe we’re not as good for each other as we thought we were. Maybe we don’t get along as well as we thought…”

A hum from Jackson as he decides to press his unfinished cigarette in the same napkin, next to Jaebeom’s, and let them become two embraced lovers, entombed in the same place. As Jaebeom’s trembling hand tries to bury them both and cover them as if they had been sinners, Jackson moves his head and his now free hands; gets up, shoves his face in Jaebeom’s space and places his hands on the couch because he _cannot_ place them _anymore_ on Jaebeom's thighs. 

“Is that so?” He whispers with his eyes closed, nose bumping into Jaebeom’s, forehead touching Jaebeom’s. 

“Jackson…”

“We both agreed it was dumb…” This time a palm moves just because Jackson can’t let him pull away; he needs him close, very close, the closest, so he lets his palm rest on Jaebeom's cheek and caresses him gently. 

“But…” Jackson’s thumb gets wet with a tear and his cheek gladly lets Jaebeom’s sniffle get lost in his skin. “Jackson, please don’t kiss me…”

_Why the hell not? That’s all Jackson wants to do. Kiss him, again and again and—_

His thumb digs into Jaebeom’s wet cheek as he turns his ex-boyfriend's head only slightly and kisses him. Jaebeom is not responsive, not until two hands cup his face and a bitter pair of lips pushes his open. By the time Jackson’s tongue slides in and has a taste, Jaebeom gives in, intoxicated, willing to get hurt again. 

Tears don’t cease to fall and get lost between two pairs of cheeks and two kissing mouths. Jaebeom wants to say something, but Jackson’s mouth kisses him and kisses him and _kisses him_ and eats every moan so hungrily that Jaebeom gives up. 

_I want you_ , says the hand that grabs Jackson’s shirt in the back. _I need you_ , written in the fingers that start caressing and stroking Jackson’s hair just how he likes. _I’ve missed you_ , in the hands he throws over Jackson’s shoulders and _please take me_ , in the clothed foot that snakes around Jackson’s hip. 

“ _Shit, love—_ ” As Jaebeom throws both of his thighs over Jackson’s hips and tries to jump him desperately — to cling to him tightly, because Jackson’s the one over him. 

So maybe they can have another argument about art later, because Jaebeom is aching and Jackson is shaking in excitement and they will probably end up devouring each other if not killing each other. 

With a hiss, Jackson pulls away for a second to grab his shirt and take it off; it feels like it takes a lot since he’s all too excited about the way Jaebeom’s already bare and hard cock rubs against his pants. Lucky for him, he’s stirred again by the whine Jaebeom lets out, therefore, he reaches down just to pick Jaebeom up and to move him to bed. 

It’s a blessing that Jaebeom is already naked in all the right places, so inviting and easily accessible to kiss and touch and fuck. And the way he lands on the bed makes him look even more disheveled, even more inviting for Jackson to come and ravage, to come and fuck his brains out. 

_To come and place himself between his favorite pair of sweet thighs, to bruise them and then adore them all red and purple and blue._

Jaebeom only breathes once and then feels his former lover making his way between a mundane pair of thighs he is still glad to touch. He presses down, _down his face, against Jaebeom’s_ and _down his hands, to push Jaebeom on the sheet_. “Did you write before coming here?” It’s what Jackson whispers as if it is a secret. “Because you taste like that cranberry tea you always have when you write.” 

A trembling heart and a frown on Jaebeom's forehead. It reminds him of “Rant”*, the book he picked up only two days ago. It’s a bit scary and much more exciting how Jackson is able to tell. _Because just what kind of monster is he?_

“Mmm—” Jaebeom moans unawarely, closing his eyes and feeling the ex lover all over him, lips kissing his cheek and hands slipping under Jaebeom, caressing tenderly. 

Lips meet in a kiss, naturally yet longingly, eyes closed and Jackson crawls upper. Since Jaebeom is trapped beautifully, he steadies his breath, melts in the kisses, huffs against Jackson’s cheek when a skilled thumb rims him slowly and spreads the wetness all around. Opens his mouth widely when Jackson’s kisses start loving the small jewelry in his nipples. Lifts his hands to feel Jackson’s head in them, to make sure all of this is real and not only sensations. 

It’s Jackson moaning and cursing louder than him the moment Jaebeom decides to touch him, too; he missed those hands on him, stroking him gentler than Jackson is usually when he touches himself. 

Like Jaebeom would be something as light as a feather, Jackson guides him to turn around, sweet kisses still lingering on Jaebeom’s neck and jaw. Half of his face buries in a soft pillow as Jackson pushes his knee up and from there on, it’s all loud breaths and throaty whimpers from Jaebeom and hisses and kisses from Jackson. It’s all Jaebeom’s body sounding like water and Jackson’s body being the waves that hit it continuously. 

It’s Jaebeom breaking and crying when a warm palm presses on his sensitive abdomen. It’s him trembling because he’s close, because the squelches and the thrusts feel really good, but because the palm on that sensitive spot makes him lose it. 

He cries Jackson’s name in the pillow and comes hard, spasms under Jackson like he is ready to die. His toes curl so bad that it hurts. His hands are — fortunately — grabbed by Jackson and pushed into the mattress as the sweaty body on top of him unpeels itself from Jaebeom’s back so he’d be able to push himself to the edge, too. 

So Jaebeom takes it quietly, the thrusts, while it all weights down on him: _this is so wrong, to fuck your ex after three months of avoiding him._ It makes Jaebeom remember their unfinished fight, and as Jackson comes over his reddened skin, some kind of stinging anxiety starts bubbling up inside his stomach. For now, he feels hot tears falling silently on his face and dripping down his neck, getting lost in the pillow he uses to muffle his cries. 

It’s okay to just breathe for now. And to cry in the pillow as Jackson’s face falls and hides in Jaebeom's shoulder. As his lips leave a peck there, _“I hate to see you crying”._

Then Jackson slowly pulls away, feeling like he is not wanted in Jaebeom’s space anymore. Feeling like a parasite that only fuels what hurts. 

So he rolls on his back, still keeping himself close to Jaebeom but not touching him anymore. Lets a puff fill the air he’s breathing and decides to rest a hand on his own stomach just to have something to touch. _Did we really have raw sex for the first time as exes?_ He wonders, and finds it annoying because it was meant to be more special, it was meant to be for an occasion or something and not just a random heat of the moment when they’re not even a couple anymore. 

But it did feel amazing and Jackson missed the shit out of it. He truly hopes Jaebeom won’t give him hell for not using a condom this time, because his intention was not that of having Jaebeom coming over just so they could fuck raw. 

If Jackson exhales again, loudly, his mind finally takes him back three months ago, when they fought. It has been utterly stupid, but they stung each other with poisonous arrows in the weakests of spots, so of course it hurt. Of course they got angry. Of course they couldn't just let it go and apologize and simply make out. 

Thing is, other people might not understand this fight and why it meant so much for them. Because Jackson tried ranting to Jinyoung and such, but he only got this big and confused frown from his brother. _“Jackson, why would you split up about a painting? Are you ten? Oh my god?”_ He remembers — and still can hear — Jinyoung saying. 

But it was not over a painting. It was… much more and much deeper than that. 

_“You’re obsessed with making art, with creating content, with being a crowd pleaser,”_ he recalls Jaebeom shouting at some point, through tears. It was the first arrow that stung Jackson. 

_“I’m only good when you manage to make art out of me, right? I’m only worthy and lovable as a muse, but never as myself, right? You don’t even love me as a whole, you only love the version of me that you’re drawing,”_ and that was a second. Pretty much enough to have Jackson feeling like he was burning with the most toxic poison, poured all over his wounds. 

So… of course he hit back, while he was burning in anger and pain. As always, he didn’t bother to censor or soften it. 

_“Your biggest issue, Jaebeom, and maybe the reason why you’re not successful is the incredible amount of self-loathe and self-criticism! Why the fuck do you keep on writing if you always say how shitty your writing is, huh?”_ It probably hurt Jaebeom. Now it hurts Jackson too, after hearing that Jaebeom didn’t touch his someday-hopefully-something-like-a-book in three months. 

So this hurts. Even now, after some time. 

Perhaps Jackson’s biggest misconception and his first grave mistake was to think that they are the same: two artistic souls forced to forge their craft so much just to be accepted, applauded, congratulated for making it. Two people trying their best to be crowd pleasers but failing miserably. 

_A tormented soul trying to keep up with something he wasn’t good enough at and a rebellious soul hating and insulting the norms, calling them useless and stupid; a drop-out medicine student and a drop-out architecture student bonding over tumult and failure, and then, slowly discovering a shared affection for art._

Jackson always thought they were the same. He always thought they shared the same experiences, the same pain and the same passion; the same love for each other and for crafting art.

Yet he always overlooked this one little detail that went like this: his hands were supposed and expected to create, to craft, to paint; to get dirty with paint and grey charcoal and to be admired for that. In retrospect, Jaebeom's hands had never been told they looked good with red bumps from the pen or splattered in dark ink. 

For Jackson, art was shiny and bright like the sun. Everybody saw it, everybody expected it. But for Jaebeom, art was just a strophe written in small letters on a post-it note; folded and shoved in a book. Sometimes swallowed just to give the impression that it does not exist. Most of the time, vomited in the darkness and loneliness of the night, spread out on a journal that has only seen artificial light. 

“I really love art…” Jackson mumbles, feeling like a burned out cigarette, consumed, tired. Perhaps he looks similar to some cigarette ash on a crinkled sheet of paper. 

“I know you do…” Whispers a trembling pair of lips while dark glossy eyes inspect a dull hand. Just fingers that would have been more appealing if they were longer. A healing cut on his thumb. A small pen stain on his pinky. 

A foreign hand grabbing it and a pair of foreign lips kissing it. Pointlessly and undeservingly kissing it again. 

“I’m sorry for… for that fight. For yelling and saying those stupid things instead of listening to you when you needed me to.”

“You don’t have to apologize…” _It means nothing right now, you’ve already planted some bad ideas in my head and it’s not that easy to take them out. I really wish they were like seeds, so you could dig your fingers into the soil and take them out, but it’s not like that._

“Do you really feel like… like I only love you as a muse?”

 _Art is everything to you, so yes. Maybe you’re unaware of it._ “It doesn't really matter… we split up some time ago. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Jaebeom, we’ve been together for… for five years, right? I admit we fucked up with that fight, but I really don’t want to trash my longest and most meaningful relationship just because I felt the need to be petty while stressed and angry. Does this make sense?”

“It’s not the fight… I can get over that. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“It’s just that I’m not good enough for you.” 

Jackson rolls his eyes because this is some movie-worthy cheesy dramatism. He has no idea where it is coming from, but he is about to abolish it. 

“Come on, baby, if you weren’t—”

“You may think I’m dramatic right now, but I am really trying not to be. Thing is… you are an artist, Jackson. And you are going to make it sooner or later. I don't know how to explain it, but you just are going to make it. And it’s going to be amazing and you’re going to deserve it… but at the same time, I won’t be able to hide my jealousy when that will happen.” 

This… is something Jackson never expected to hear. It tingles his ears, but it also stings him. Uncomfortably, very. It’s like a sharp elbow in his left rib. 

“What? _Jaebeom—_ c-come on!”

“Just think of… think of your art, yeah? Everytime you make something, you rip a piece of your time and a piece of your soul to create that something, right?”

It’s true, but Jackson visualizes two gigantic and fluffy clouds that look like cotton candy. One is golden, the other is light blue. And his fingers pick at each other, rip a small piece and turn it into art. He can’t explain, but the cotton candy he uses to create, is endless. 

“You turn it into something and toss it into the world. In exchange, you get money or appreciation and it probably makes you happy, right?”

“Yes!” An excited answer as his lips curl up in a wide smile. His hand reaches for Jaebeom’s stomach again and sets itself there as Jackson makes sure to spoon him. 

“Well… for me, it’s the same. I, too, rip off pieces of my time and soul. I, too, toss my… _my whatever_ into the world. But for me, it feels like I’m throwing bread crumbs to pigeons. I do love pigeons and I do want to feed them, but, as my time and soul consume, it gets less fun. I do love the process to death, but I’m just wondering why am I even bothering consuming my time and soul and throwing them into the world with this stupid little blind hope that some magic will happen at some point with one of my pieces.”

Right. Now Jackson gets it. He tries to, at least. Tries to picture Jaebeom getting half— _no_ , a quarter of the feedback Jackson usually gets to a piece. Imagines Jaebeom getting overwhelmed and buying some cake, sharing it with Jackson “without any reason”. Answering all the opinions about his story over the weekend and spending a lot of hours over doing so. 

Maybe he gets it. 

“When you said that maybe I should give up, I didn't take it as _your writing is bad_. I took it rather as _it does not worth spending time and energy over it_. It hurt, but I felt unmotivated to go on anyway, so I just… I took a second job so I won’t have time and energy anymore.” 

“You took a second job?” Jackson mumbles in Jaebeom's hair, feeling drained. Is this the sort of drain Jaebeom feels everyday? About his craft and about his passion? About himself and about his place in this big world?

“Mhm… I still feel like it’s not even close to being enough, but what can I do?” 

“Jaebeom…”

“Hm?”

“I know we didn’t even make up yet, but… there is something you need to know… something I have been thinking about ever since last winter…”

“And what is that?”

“I know you like your space and you like having alone time sometimes… but I really thought about you moving in with me, here. I’m not saying you have to accept or anything, but if you’d like that idea, I kinda… _well_ …”

Finally, Jaebeom crawls and twists like a fish on the sheet just to turn and face Jackson after so many tears, after so many words he spoke and after so many stings in his guts. He’s aware he’s looking like crap, all messy strands of long hair everywhere, puffy eyes and chewed-up lips, and—

_And Jackson’s hand caressing his cheek and moving the strands of hair from his eyes before he even manages to breathe. It’s as if he’s something precious and dear and he might start crying again._

“I’d love it if you’d like to be my fiancé or my husband or something like that… maybe not right now if you don’t feel like it, but just so you know… I’ve been thinking about it. About us, sharing a nice place, doing an art project together, maybe. About you releasing your book sometime and me opening up a little gallery? It may seem silly, or it may seem like they’re big dreams, but it’s what I want. My art, your art, and… most importantly, you.”

“I’m not meant to make art, Jackson. I can’t make art… there’s no such thing as—”

Sometimes whispers are better interrupted by silent kisses. And sometimes tears are better left free, to wander and eventually dry against warm skin. 

Sometimes plans are better left abandoned and sometimes days are better spent just talking in murmurs and listening to hearts beating. 

_And sometimes… well, sometimes art is better left unfinished._

#  . 

and so you told me  
hundreds of times  
that your art is not just you painting with your fingers while your heart beats,  
it is not you being anaesthetised,  
stranded in the world you create.

it is someone else, _me, an embrace,_  
[a feeling of someone else, in longing, who found you.](https://twitter.com/oceanvbot/status/1359053563952037896)

Jaebeom still chews up on his lower lip as his eyes go through the small framed paragraphs, placed as an attachment to Jackson’s piece. It might not be Jaebeom’s best, but it is Jackson’s favourite. 

The fact that Jackson placed it next to his blue and purple piece, as a credited reference tells a lot about how attached he was to it. And the fact that Jackson is not here to pop open the champagne says a lot about Jackson. About his priorities and attachments, too. 

He’s the frozen body entering in his own gallery just a bit later than everyone, his jacket still on. Cheeks seeking the warmth between Jaebeom's palms and those gentle, loving strokes only Jaebeom knows how to offer. _Sometimes Jackson’s cheeks become the sheet of the nightly journal Jaebeom caresses, and he loves it whenever it happens._ Always so unexpected. Always so loving. 

“I can’t believe you ran to the car when you were supposed to pop open the champagne.” 

“Eh…”

“What did you forget? The keys?”

Jaebeom's smile is so sincere and soft that Jackson already thinks of ways to have it planted on his cheek, or on his forehead, on his lips, too. But, no, he did not forget the keys. He did not forget anything. 

“Hold this a little bit for me, alright? And let’s open the champagne.” 

Truth is Jaebeom is feeling a bit out of place in the gallery, that without Jackson here. He doesn't have a lot of experience with what needs to be done or said. Most of the time, he is gazing at Jackson's art and admires it with a smile, reminding himself of the processes he was there for. 

And now… now he sees the blue gift box, wrapped simply and elegantly. He holds it for Jackson while Jackson opens the champagne bottle and pours in the glasses, helped, as always, by Jinyoung. So he thinks the box might be for an important guest, for a sponsor or maybe for some close friend Jackson invited to the gallery. 

_Cheers_ and _cheers_ and even more _cheers_ over golden-filled glasses. Smiles and congratulations and all the rest. Jinyoung, the smiley gentleman he is, offering Jaebeom a glass of champagne, too, aware that Jaebeom doesn't quite drink. The whiskers pressing into his cheek tell Jaebeom to _at least try_ to feel included. 

So whom is the gift for? Because Jaebeom would like his hand freed, so he can pretend he has an idea about how fancy people drink champagne. 

He waits though. He waits for Jackson to get his glass, too, to notice the blue box and the worry on Jaebeom's face. And the struggle. 

He waits for Jackson to slowly drag him towards the little table so they can abandon their champagne there for a little while. 

“Who is this for? Whom should I give it to? I’m getting embarrassed… is it someone's birthday?”

“It’s for you, baby.”

“For me? On what occasion?”

“On the occasion that I love you!” Jackson says proudly, as if he discovered something extraordinary. “Open it.”

And Jaebeom does. He doesn't expect the box to open this quickly and ingeniously, but it’s really quick and simple. And it has him biting on the same lip he has been abusing with his teeth all day long. 

“Jackson… what is—…” 

As if he’s not able to tell… It just doesn't seem real. 

“Do you like it? Open it.”

It’s nice how Jackson’s hands slowly wrap around Jaebeom’s hips, to make sure Jaebeom won’t melt until he’s on the floor. His fingers are caressing hesitantly, as if the hard cover is made out of the thinnest and most easily breakable kind of paper. Though he is tracing over the letters with his fingers, he is not able to speak yet. 

“Do you like it, baby? Not to brag, but it was me who kinda designed the cover. What do you think? Pretty, huh?”

“This is… something you had done for me, right? Like, it’s just— it’s…”

“It’s your book, love. It’s going to start printing on Monday.”

“No way…” 

“I just hope you’re not mad at me? I didn't sell them your copyright or anything, I just arranged that it is… edited and printed and stuff. They didn’t make significant changes either, just a really smooth and subtle editing. What do you think?”

“By Jaebeom _Wang_?” 

“Wait, what?”

“You want to marry me so hard?”

“I swear that was a printing mistake! Look, I’ll call and—”

“Jackson.”

“I’ll have it fixed!”

“Jackson.”

“What?”

“Leave it like that… I… thank you, I don't even know what to say. I don't even know how I can repay you for this.”

“Maybe don’t stop writing and I’ll be happy. You don’t have to force yourself either for the sake of creating. Just create at your own peace and it’s going to be enough for me.” 

“Sometimes I think I don't deserve you…”

“And sometimes I think we should get married so I can be my embarrassing self in public!”

A smiley kiss on Jackson’s cheek and then on his lips, too. A small sigh as he caresses his work once again, gently. 

“Can I have your champagne, too?”

“You can.” 

A hand wrapping over Jackson’s neck and embracing him, _“thank you, thank you endlessly”_. Closed eyes, a pair of beating hearts and the fulfilling sentiment that so many years of practicing a craft weren’t in vain. 

A big silly dream that is slowly yet surely getting underlined in Jackson's favourite shades of blue and purple.

**Author's Note:**

> *"Rant" is a book by Chuck Palahniuk, and I was trying to reference that scene in which the monster eats out a woman and could tell what she ate the whole day by the taste, or something like that. (P.S.: if anyone has this book freshly in their mind, please do feel free to let me know, i vaguely remember it because i read it ages ago)
> 
> if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed! :') these two bitches really be living the gay dream
> 
> as always, any kind of feedback is very much appreciated! please give me validation because i literally died while editing this lmao


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